Icarus Drowning
by Losselen
Summary: Why did he do it? Why did you do it? Blackcest warning: (Regulus x Sirius)


**Foolish**  
© Losselen 2003-4

_a/n_: Blackcest Regulus/Sirius. Why did he do it? Why do you do it? _"unsignificantly  
off the coast  
there was_

a splash quite unnoticed  
this was  
Icarus drowning" 

**-William Carlos Williams**

~

How does it feel to wake up one day and know that you've given up? To fall when you were held so high by the winged Zephyr, when hope was bright and close and caged in your fingers, but the next second, you've let go and you're falling—falling—falling.

~

"Why? Why did you do it? What were you fucking _thinking_?" Sirius had whispered hoarsely but harshly at him that day; he can still see Sirius' eyes and the anger that blistered through them, stinging and hot at once. Regulus couldn't tell if he wanted to kiss him or punch him then. But he did neither, he remembers, because he'd learned that cold rage was easier to use, easier to control.

But it was so fucking _hard_ to keep a blank face when anger was knotting inside his stomach—he's bound to get ulcers in his older days if he kept this up—caustic all around, so cross, so misshapen.

Regulus wanted to scream at Sirius for not even _understanding_—he who thought himself sympathetic—for not even realizing how much it hurt to know that he wasn't even strong enough to stand up to his own parents, let along the rest of his House; that he lacked the courage Sirius had, that Sirius _hated him_.

They were drowning in their own shadows.

And who knows how dirty their shadows were. Their muddy, disturbed, reedy shadows.

~

It all started in a cool summer, when he warily opened his eyes one morning to find his brother's shadow in his room. Regulus couldn't believe that Sirius could even do such an eerie thing as watching him in his sleep, but there he was, standing there, eyes mournful and mouth barely clasped. Regulus could barely make out from his tangled expression, what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and suddenly he felt sad, even piteous for the warped vehemence in Sirius' eyes. He tried to smooth it over like the licking of the fur, the petting of the soft spot behind the ear—or the faint, tenderness of tongue brushing tongue, whimpering and silencing.

Sirius was the first to pull away, and he had an almost disgusted, _angry_ glimmer in his eyes that was so malicious that Regulus spent the rest of that day worrying. But Sirius came back for more the next day, the next week, the next _life_.

Regulus never spoke much about it (he didn't want to make Sirius mad and lose him,) but when Sirius's mouth had crushed all the air out from Regulus' lungs, it had felt _right_ for that second; then it smothered the life out of him. It was as if Sirius hates him, and is trying to kill him and steal all his breaths from his mouth, that in the end, it left Regulus confused. 

He had known all along, how much he loved his brother. (Too much.) How much his brother loved him back. (Not enough.) But when one hot afternoon, Sirius pushed him against their room's wall and kissed him all over, (not at all too gently,) Regulus suddenly was sure of his assertions. It was funny how one moment of undisguised truth can peel off every layer of lie a man wore.

He'd learned then not to trust anyone, not even family—_especially_ family, because when they betray you in the end, it'll burn the most. 

~

Sometimes he wondered if Sirius really means what he does, or says. He used to tease him a lot; quite a lot, but this time Regulus thinks he's gone too far, and when his fist connected with Sirius' jaws, _hard_, painfully, he was quite sure.

"You don't love me, don't lie."

But Regulus was quite sure too that Sirius won't understand what he'd said, and would just take it for face value.

~

How _strange_ it feels to be forced into your own suicide, when all around you are shadows—quite possibly your own—that are trying to stop you from taking another breath, stop you from remembering _who you are_. But maybe he can still savor some of Sirius' scent, abundant in his nose but none left in his memory, when he wakes up tomorrow—or maybe the peculiar but familiar taste of his mouth—tomorrow—_tomorrow_— 


End file.
